IN the morning not a vestige of the formidable hurricane remained, and the sky was bluer than Demeter’s robe. But, setting forth early upon his filial task, Amphion called Simo’s attention to a new and significant feature of the landscape. Upon the seashore, drawn up beyond the tide-mark, lay certain mighty, hollow ships that loomed black against the rosy east. Their masts in some cases were broken, and their tackle showed disarray, but they were sound of hull and little the worse for the perils of the night.
Perceiving a blazing shield at the prow of the greatest ship, Simo knew all.
“It is the fleet of godlike Odysseus!” said he. “Caught in the fury of this sudden and utterly illegitimate hurricane, he ran for shelter, as Circé intended that he should; and he is on Aea, where even his craft and subtle guile will avail him nothing.”
“Who is Odysseus?” inquired Amphion; and his companion replied:
“Odysseus, whom you must not mention without addition of a romantic adjective, is the ever-wise, steadfast, goodly and great-hearted son of Laertes — one in might and understanding above all other men. Divine blood flows in his veins, and he is a very great hero indeed. At present he roams the earth and sea, vainly endeavouring to return to Ithaca and his patient and adorable spouse; but it will be many moons before he leaves Aea — if I know my Circé. He is the notable fashion of male she adores.”
They concealed themselves behind a rock and beheld presently a band of brave adventurers set forth armed for the palace.
“Which is godlike Odysseus?” whispered Amphion; and Simo replied:
“The hero of many counsels is not taking any chances. He will wait in the hollow ships to see what happens. It is a simple axiom with all great men, knowing their lives to be of infinite value to their fellow-creatures, that they do not venture them upon unknown perils. Those who have the wisdom to make wars do not fight them; but, out of their patriotism and self-denial, seek the security of the senate-house or temple, as the case may be, and thence utter winged words for the lesser men who wield the sword and bear the brunt. Thus, whatsoever betides, the wise old ones are still there, to carry on when the rising generation has gloriously fallen. For what can youth do for a world like this save die in hope? Not that Odysseus evades the fury of the spears — far from it. He is a rare man-killer; but in his present responsible position, as an explorer, and the brains and heart of the company, he must take care of himself for the sake of the rest.
“We shall see presently,” continued the serpent, “what Circé has arranged.”
They proceeded among the fish-eating birds, but could hear nothing of Dolius. The pelican was still attempting vainly to organise; afar off, like a jewel on a crag, the sculptor addressed the Lord of Light as he ascended in his golden chariot from the sea. They passed the woods presently, and while Amphion drank the pure, cold milk from a green coconut, and Simo nibbled dew-bright fennels, they emerged suddenly upon the great apes, who had once been philosophers.
They were seated about a frugal meal of grass and herbs, discussing logic.
“I will tell the story of King Eraclius — the most logical monarch who ever lived,” began the gorilla. “Logic, as we know, is not often found in the purple; but this potentate affords a refreshing oasis in the usual desert of mean compromise.”
“Tell us the story,” said a chimpanzee — very aged and wrinkled, with sad eyes. Beside him sat a younger creature of the same species.
“The emperor condemned a patrician to death,” began the first speaker. “The patrician had gone for a walk with a friend, and because the friend returned not with him, Eraclius concluded foul play, and felt assured that the patrician had taken a life. ‘You are a murderer,’ said the monarch, ‘and must pay the just price of your crime. Not a word! I have spoken.’
“A soldier was directed to convey the patrician to the place of death and there decapitate him. But upon their way, patrician and executioner fell in with the friend, unharmed and in the best of spirits. He had merely delayed about his business; and now he thanked the watching gods that he had saved his companion from the royal wrath.
“Rejoicing at this happy turn of a perilous affair, they presented themselves before Eraclius; but the patrician, his friend, and the soldier were alike without logic. Their emperor, better skilled in the science, commanded that all three should instantly suffer the supreme penalty.
“ ‘Wretches!’ cried the inexorable but clear-sighted monarch. ‘Each and all of you merit the sword, and shall feel it ere the sun has set. The patrician dies because I have already pronounced sentence upon him, and when was it known that the royal word can be taken back? The soldier perishes because he has disobeyed his sovereign’s command, and thus broken his oath of allegiance and committed high treason; while this miserable dawdler by the wayside shall be crucified, in that he and he alone has caused the death of two respectable and innocent men.’ All three suffered accordingly.
“Now, there,” concluded the gorilla, “is a pretty situation upon which we may exercise our analytical powers and pass another miserable day.”
Then the company was astonished, for Amphion, trembling with indignation, lifted his young voice among them, and cried out:
“Why were not the people full of logic, too? Why did not they kill hateful Eraclius for murdering three good men?”
“That, indeed,” admitted the chimpanzee, “would have been a just reward for his superb performance.”
“They should have applauded the logic as we do,” declared the orang, “and then proceeded to inflict a logical penalty for the crime. But practise logic upon others and feel it in our own person are two different experiences. An all-powerful emperor — However, let us begin at the beginning. Our problem opens with the patrician’s assurance to Eraclius that he had not slain his friend. What are we to assume the circumstances that led the monarch to disbelieve him? I see a flaw there.”
They left the monkey men to their symposium.
“The poor devils mean well,” said Simo. “There are few persons so ingenuously human as the philosophers. Now they will examine this fable with avid desire to shine in each other’s eyes, each desiring rather to convince his brother than get to the root of the matter. They will grow warm, not because they are jealous for the truth, but because they are jealous of one another, which is quite another matter. The men of knowledge suffer from colour-blindness and a loss of perspective so complete that each holds up his little crumb and shouts, ‘Behold the loaf!’ Excellent fellows, yet insensible to every reality but their own. The world takes what it wants from them with a rough hand, and they, dead to their real significance, care not, and let the substance of their wisdom be put to base uses, while they cleave to the shadow.”
While he spoke a great herd of swine rushed squeaking past them, with madness in its many eyes. The creatures but an hour before had been the company of incomparable Odysseus, but, under Circé’s wiles, they were already a drove of brutes.
“Now what will the hero do?” asked Amphion.
“We shall see,” replied Simo. “The son of Laertes and the seed of the high gods is little likely to take this lying down. Behold! ”
A mighty and glorious figure stood knee-deep among the miserable pigs. They grunted their atrocious misfortune in many keys; but, despite his sagacity, he could not understand a word.
The ever-wise had buckled on his armour, and shone in the green wood as though made of precious metal. His mighty limbs gleamed like ivory under the sunshine, his crisp and curly beard glittered like gold, so that he resembled a master’s chryselephantine statue of Zeus himself awakened into life. He wore a helm, above which waved a plume of scarlet; in his godly right hand was a silver-studded sword with a bronze blade, shining and terrific; he carried also his shield, his stout bow and death-dealing arrows.
“If he kills Circé, what will become of my dear father?” murmured Amphion.
“Fear nothing,” replied the serpent. “Greathearted Odysseus cannot kill an immortal goddess even if he desired to do so. He knows that very well. It is a case for compromise, as the philosophers would tell you. With the gods it must be ever so, since they are the stronger. A man’s only hope is to make a bargain if it may be possible. What will happen is this. The hero rages and the enchantress charms. The hero will advance perfectly reasonable demands, while Circé, having the whip-hand, as we say, will see his point of view, applaud his devotion to the mob he leads, and agree, with that inimitable gesture which is hers alone, to restore his comrades into human shapes at an early opportunity. Once men again, however, there is nothing to hinder them from launching the black, hollow ships upon the bosom of the waters, hoisting the sails and bolting with the first slant of off-shore wind. But this would not suit Circé. The goddess desires to become better acquainted with Odysseus. She has heard a good deal about him. Who has not? She likes the look of him. He is a figure to please any goddess with a heart. Neither is the one and only Odysseus a man insensible to feminine charms. No right hero ever was. He will, I think, find Circé a grander armful than Calypso; but whether he does or does not, he will be marooned here for twelve months and made to promise, upon his august word and stainless honour, to remain for that period. The wiliness of man is but infantile cunning to the wiliness of Olympus. He goes up, you see, like a dazzling ray of light to the halls of Circé — a formidable and impressive creature; but presently she will meet him with that smile of hers and that voice of hers, that amazing hair of hers and that white bosom of hers, and — well, we shall join them at supper doubtless; but do not expect, my little friend, the centre of the stage to-night, because you are not going to get it.”
As a matter of truth, however, Circé did not descend to greet pre-eminent Odysseus. He strode presently into the atrium of the palace and lifted his brazen voice, like the roar of the deep and angry sea, so that the walls echoed to his wrath. And there he found her sitting spinning with her maidens — a scene so homely, happy, domestic, so suggestive of Penelope at her best — that the master of many counsels dropped his sword and his bow and arrows, his shield and his helmet with the crested plume, and burst into manly tears. They flowed profusely in a little stream over the tessellated pavement, and so, seeking their own level, as tears will, ran out into the formal garden. And as they twinkled there, winding this way and that, there sprang up sweet flowers, crystal-bright, with blue eyes amidst the petals. These are called by the vulgar “Tears of Odysseus” to this day; but the learned have another name for them.1
The enchantress found no difficulty in dealing with the emotion of goodly Odysseus. She dried his tears, kissed his hand, admired his silver-studded sword, and said it was time for lunch. A meal fit for such a hero awaited the wondrous visitor, and when, after sundown, Amphion and Simo, weary and very hungry, crept to their places at the supper-table, they beheld another banquet, and the master of many devices quite ready for it.
Soldier of fortune and man of the world that he was, he had accepted the inevitable, and agreed to dawdle a year on Aea, since only by so doing might his retinue return to the semblance of men, and himself avoid dark fate.
“Not that they will mind the delay — stout fellows,” said the hero, in his glorious voice. “They have endured much on my behalf, and a year of rest and peace, amid these fair groves and happy wonders of art and nature, cannot fail to do us all good, both in body and mind. My only fear is that we put too great a tax upon your divine hospitality.”
Thus the hero hid his heart and behaved with that diplomacy and deft dealing for which he was so justly famed.
Circé drew both Amphion and Simo into the conversation. She was in a mood of exquisite feminine graciousness, and wore a raiment spun from those magic moonbeams that only flash in the hour before dawn. Her jewellery matched her solitary garment, and upon her hair there sparkled rose diamonds as great as pigeons’ eggs. The robe was tenuous and filmy. It revealed practically the whole transcendent figure of the goddess. Indeed, Amphion had never seen so much of Circé before.
“Even those astounding brilliants are dull in the light of your eyes, Circé of the many enchantments,” said the master of craft, quaffing from a two-handled cantharos that held nectar of a rare old vintage; and she blushed exquisitely before his praise.
Anon she led the hero to discourse upon his strong subject, and listened while Odysseus, of the many predicaments, related astounding experiences and the manifold and serpentine wiles and evasions, shufflings and fencings, deceits and dissimulations, he had practised — the bunkums and the quackeries, the perfidies and pretendings he had employed — to extricate himself from countless tight places.
Then Simo, who also liked to talk, related a little tale while the interminable Odysseus was taking breath.
“A pretty chicane occurs to me,” said Simo, “for, as a serpent, I may be held some authority on cunning; and the narrative of the priest of Kali offers a sound example of quick wit and stratagem displayed by quite a common, everyday person.”
“Proceed, Simo,” said Circé, “and use not over-many words, for Amphion is already half asleep, and it is time that we all went to bed. Kali I know. She is a bloodthirsty goddess of the Indes.”
“Of Ganjam in Southern India, to be exact,” replied Simo. “The matter happened thus. A good and faithful priest, who tended the shrine of this considerable divinity, was sore at heart and suffered much because the service of the goddess ceased to hold the worshippers, and in one most vital matter they withdrew their devotion and support. As you know, Kali demands a steady measure of human blood for her comfort and support, but a benighted people showed growing disinclination to supply the rightful sacrifices, and their decay of faith tormented the devout ministrant not a little.
“While this good priest brooded upon the times there entered the temple a coppersmith whose stall in the bazaar was not far distant — a man of piety and just dealing — and when he had prayed to Kali, and offered such modest gift as his means allowed, he fell into conversation with the minister, and they two bewailed the times.
“ ‘Our own fault, our just return!’ declared the devotee. ‘Why do the folk hunger and thirst? Why does the river shrink to a thread of mud-coloured beads? Why does the rice perish in the scorched earth, and the mango fall untimely from the bough? Why do the skies forget to bring a cloud to us, and enemies ravage the little that we have? Why these bad seasons, epidemics, and general denial of all that makes life a possible and a seemly thing? The answer lies within this slighted temple, for Kali, the divine breath, the spirit of life, the giver of happiness, is starved of her essential food, weakened of her strength, flouted, outraged and robbed of her rights. And yet there walk and talk amongst us a thousand men and women who might well be spared for this high purpose — people of no importance whatever in the scheme of things, who from being nonentities, scarcely of interest to themselves, might give their blood to a famished divinity, and so, without effort on their part, win in death a veneration their worthless lives can never hope to achieve.’
“ ‘There are indeed many such,’ replied the good coppersmith. ‘And one emphatically so. I refer to my enemy, the carpenter — a man without faith, or any rule of conduct save his own advancement. I have quarrelled bitterly with this wretch over a matter of rupees that he owes me.’
“ ‘For the sake of Kali, then, compose your quarrel,’ directed the priest. ‘I, too, know the carpenter. Make him your friend; entertain him; pleasure him, and bring him here on some quiet evening, that we may put him to a good purpose, and so advance the welfare of our district. He is a bad man, but may make a very good sacrifice, for he is of a round and plump habit, and well covered withal.’
“The devout coppersmith did as he was directed, offered the hand of friendship and forgiveness to his enemy, and found no difficulty in burying the past. For the carpenter had not lived in vain, despite his lack of piety, and he knew that a friend is better than a foe, and that to turn a foe into a friend is a deed alike applauded by gods and men.
“The coppersmith now made a feast and invited the carpenter thereto. Loving good cheer, the artificer came, and they fed long and drank deeply. But, though this carpenter’s belly was large, his head was hard, and thus it came about that when his host proposed to crown their reconciliation with prayers to Kali, it was the coppersmith and not the carpenter who staggered in his going and needed the support of steady feet and a strong arm.
“To the temple they came in secrecy, and the carpenter, who had smelled a rat from the first, quickly appreciated the situation, when he perceived the good priest awaiting them with a huge, sacrificial knife and other evidences of his high purpose. Therefore, leaving the coppersmith, who instantly fell asleep on a prayer-rug, the artisan did reverence and spoke.
“ ‘Lo, august one,’ said he, ‘I have brought this devout and earnest person, long known for his enthusiastic support of the sacred Käli. Having fortified himself for the purpose, he comes in proud hope that you will accept the tribute of his veins for our Divine Protectress. Thus shall Ganjam’s many sins be forgiven and the grievous scourge of Käli’s anger be lifted from our shoulders.’
“ ‘The blood of a good man is probably sweeter than that of a rascal,’ replied the priest, ‘and for that reason the coppersmith may be preferred to yourself.’
“ ‘I feel sure of it,’ replied the carpenter.
“Whereon, being moved solely by adoration for Her whom he served, the minister of Kali proceeded to his intoxicated and unconscious victim.
“ ‘Waste not a moment,’ urged the carpenter, ‘lest his noble resolution should grow faint and the sacrifice lose thereby.’
“So the priest, with a single blow, struck off the coppersmith’s head and appeased Kali after the accepted manner; while as for the carpenter, he went on his way rejoicing, patting his absurd stomach, and crying aloud:
“ ‘I am he off whom it is very difficult to score!’ ”
Godlike Odysseus laughed heartily at this narrative, and applauded it; but Circé, to whose dark heart the deviousness of the most cunning man was but milk for babes, yawned, and declared the evening at an end.
Then Simo and Amphion retired; and as they left the atrium they heard enchanting music of lute and flute throbbing in harmony, saw amazing and fragrant flowers budding and blooming out of every marble pillar, observed a wondrous light, that was neither moonshine, sunshine nor torch-shine, break like an unearthly dawn. They also noted myrmidons and winged women hastening past them laden with such fruits and magic delicacies as never yet existed save at a banquet of the gods.
“Ah!” said Simo. “The fun is just beginning. However, two is company in these cases, and we have graver matters to think about.”
1 During the winter of 1908 the Rev. Ernest Wangleton, a Presbyterian minister from the Hartlepools, wintered on Aea for his rheumatism. An ardent botanist, he swiftly discovered this beautiful, herbaceous plant, perceived that it was a species new to science, and recorded it under the name of Wangletonia candidissima oculo-cœrulea. Within twenty-four hours the sensitive little gem had perished, and the “Tears of Odysseus” are now, unhappily, quite extinct.